The Dating Paradigm
by Hokum
Summary: Lestrade unleashes his inner Cilla Black and sets Sherlock up on a date, which John is fine with. Really. Honestly. Absolutely fine with…
1. Chapter 1

**The Dating Paradigm**

******Disclaimer: **I own neither Sherlock or John, I'm just taking them out for a spin.

John Watson sighed heavily as he tried to concentrate on making his handwriting look even the tiniest bit neater. There was probably some statistic or study out there that held the answer as to why every doctor's handwriting was always so scruffy and untidy. The fact that he was sitting in a noisy police briefing room wasn't helping him much either. Looking over he saw that Sherlock had already completed three sheets of his statement forms and his handwriting was tiny. Looking longingly out of the window he noticed that it was already beginning to get dark. That was another Saturday spent cooped up in a police station filling out statement forms when he could be doing something more meaningful. Well by meaningful he meant sit at home on the sofa in his pants watching telly. So what if he just wanted to sit at home and watch rubbish on telly? Hunting down criminals and chasing around after Sherlock whilst still trying to keep a few hours' work at the practice took up a lot of time and energy thank you very much.

Sherlock was talking to himself again or possibly to John, sometimes it was hard to tell which, as the pen in his hand sped across the page. Even when he was writing something quickly his handwriting was still neat and precise. Bloody git. Frowning slightly he also noticed that as well as writing down his own statement, Sherlock had also been crossing out the standardised questions on the form and adding in his own. John let out one big noise of frustration, not this again!

Every time they were summoned down to Scotland Yard Sherlock seemed determined to keep them as long as possible as, in his mind at least, any form of officially police paper work was written by "stupid people for even stupider people". Sherlock had desecrated so many pieces of paper work with his own scribbling's that they now had to sit at the front of Lestrade's desk like two errant schoolboys. Thankfully they were largely left to their own devices as the other officers went about their business around them. Sometimes one of the younger officers would tentatively approach them, in a manner that suggested that John and Sherlock were the last two surviving members of the Beatles, and ask wide eyed about what case they were working on. John would freely admit that he quite enjoyed the attention and it was always good when Sherlock got to explain his theories to an audience. Thankfully Lestrade was always on hand to shoo his officers away whenever he could sense that Sherlock was getting bored and tetchy with what he called "imbecilic questioning that a three year old could answer".

However it was Saturday night and John really didn't want to spend the whole evening sat in a dingy police station so he leaned over and rapped Sherlock on the head with his pen. Sherlock jerked his head up instantly and looked over at him through narrowed eyes whilst John gave him a very pointed look.

"_What"_

"_Don't what me; I'm not staying here all night!"_

"_Honestly John, a five year old could write better questions."_

"_I don't care, do it properly so we can go home."_

"_Fine."_

"_Good."_

It should probably scare John how much they managed to express to one another just through the raise of an eyebrow or the twitch of a lip. Strangely enough it never really did bother him that much as Sherlock grabbed another piece of paper and began writing again. Smiling smugly to himself John went back to finishing his own statement.

Half an hour later John was just finishing off the last form and feeling quite chuffed with himself that his handwriting was almost entirely legible when Lestrade sidled up to him.

"You finished John? Do you mind if I have a quick word mate about the football next week?"

"Sure. Back in a few Sherlock," John said, frowning slightly due the fact that as far as he was aware they didn't have any plans for the football next week.

His only response was a grunt and he looked over to see that Sherlock was rewording the questions on the statement form. Again.

"Sherlock, what did I tell you before? I'm not spending all day in here! Do it properly," John huffed in the manner of a disgruntled primary school teacher as he pushed another new form towards the detective.

"We wouldn't have to be here all day if they just asked the right questions in the first place!" Sherlock snapped as he shot Lestrade a very condescending look.

"Nice to see you too Sherlock," Lestrade said jovially as he leant over and gathered up John's completed forms.

"Just shut up and get on with it. I'm not missing another episode of Total Whipeout just because you're being an arse!"

Sherlock sent him a pout worthy of a Victorian maiden, snatched up the form and flounced off to sit by the window, muttering darkly about idiots as he went.

"Yeah, same to you to!" John said as he followed Lestrade over towards the water cooler in the corner of the room.

The briefing room wasn't overly busy as it was a Saturday but there was just enough noise and people milling allowing John and Lestrade to have a relatively uninterrupted conversation. John waited patiently for the detective to start talking but all Lestrade did was make a serious of rather pained facial expressions.

"Are you all right Greg? You look a bit funny," John said somewhat bemusedly as Lestrade seemed to be summoning up the courage to start talking.

"Yes I'm fine, well," Lestrade said not sounding very fine at all, "Before I say anything else John I want you to know that I consider you and Sherlock as two of my closest friends."

"Right," John said. He was beginning to get slightly worried where this was going.

"This is a bit difficult so I'm just going to go ahead and say it. I've got this mate of mine who works in another precinct and I was wondering if-" Lestrade suddenly burst out but John quickly cut him off.

"Look Greg thanks for the offer, I'm flattered really but I'm just not looking to date anyone at the moment. After the whole Sarah fiasco and all the others I think I'd rather just stay away from the whole dating scene," John said as he smiled at Lestrade, hoping he hadn't embarrassed his friend too much.

"Blimey this is awkward. I wasn't asking about you John…. He was after a date with Sherlock," Lestrade broke off awkwardly as John went from white to green faster than a set of traffic lights.

John felt as though someone had come along and rammed something very sharp right between his ribcage. What? What? Someone wanted to go out on a date with Sherlock Holmes? Nobody ever wanted to go out with Sherlock; it was always John that went out on all the dates with all the random women. And sometimes men. Yes there were men as well but that was beside the point.

"Oh… ummm…. Well I suppose if he wants too… then he can…" John trailed off as he suddenly found it very difficult to breath.

"I thought I would check with you first just in case…, " Lestrade said with a rather pointed look at John.

"Why would it matter to me? He can do what he likes, see who he likes. Doesn't make any difference to me," John said in a rather defensive tone. His brain seemed to be functioning again but not on an entirely rational level.

"Right well if you're sure then, I don't want to go stepping on anyone's toes," Lestrade mumbled as he eyed John warily, like he was liable to explode at any given second.

"It's fine, really," John said curtly. The numbness in that had spread throughout his limbs was slowly being replaced a completely irrational feeling of intense anger.

"Phew, you had me going there. I was worried you were going to turn all 'Fatal Attraction' on me! I'll tell him he's got the green light with Sherlock," Lestrade said happily.

"Him? Ohh… I didn't realise it was a guy who wanted to ask him out," John said suddenly. He had largely ignored Lestrades previous remark, his thought process seemed to be revolving around hitting Lestrade very hard in the face for reasons he had yet to define, but the fact that another bloke was asking Sherlock out brought him right back down to earth with an unpleasant bump. This was an unexpected turn of events.

"Ohh sorry, didn't I mention that before? Not a problem is it?"

"No. I just didn't think that Sherlock was you know… into blokes or anyone for that matter really. He said he was married to his work," John stuttered as he felt his insides turn to ice. Why did it matter so much that someone else wanted to take Sherlock out on a date? Well not exactly someone else, another man. Some unknown male stranger that had suddenly, out of nowhere seemingly, taken an interest in Sherlock.

"Well I suppose I won't know until I ask him. I just presumed that he might get on better with a guy," Lestrade said as if the thought had only just occurred to him.

"I doubt he would agree to go anyway. A case might come up and he's got an experiment on the go, something involving fingers. He's really tetchy about leaving it for too long," John garbled as Lestrade looked horrified at the mention of the word fingers.

"I'm sure he can spare one night away from his fingers or whatever else he's got going on in that health hazard of a kitchen," Lestrade said as he started to move back towards where Sherlock was sat.

"Are you sure this mate of yours would even want to go out with him? I mean, I don't think he's even been on a date before. Some people might think that that's a bit weird," John burst out, fully aware that he currently sounded like the world's biggest arsehole.

Lestrade looked slightly taken aback, which was understandable as John was habitually telling people like Donovan and Anderson off whenever they were being mean to Sherlock.

"Oh… well I'm sure he won't be that fussed by it. I'm surprised nobody else has asked him out before now. Good looking bloke like that will get snapped up sooner or later," Lestrade said with a roughish wink at John.

"Well looks only get you so far don't they? What about his personality? Not many people are going to want to be insulted every time they pronounce something wrong or have their grammar picked to shreds every time they open their mouth," John's brain was clearly not done with tearing his best friend to pieces.

"Don't worry, I've fully briefed him on Sherlock's little eccentricities," Lestrade chuckled although he was giving John a very odd look. Like he was afraid that John might suddenly take a run at him and attack.

"If by eccentricities you mean being downright rude and nasty then I'm sure they'll have a whale of a time. Does he have a glutton for punishment this mate of yours?" John snapped. Clearly someone had knocked the switch in his brain from Nice Guy John to Utter Bastard John.

"Blimey, if that's how you talk about Sherlock I dread to think what you say about me when I'm not around," Lestrade said only half-jokingly as he looked warily over to the corner where Sherlock was luckily still absorbed in making sure he filled out his statement form incorrectly.

"I'd probably say that maybe you should think about the repercussions before you go setting up Sherlock with random strangers!" Utter Bastard John seemed to be on a roll now and Nice Guy John was having a hard time reining him in.

"Repercussions? What the bloody hell are you talking about John?" Lestrade said as he dragged John further behind the water cooler. Some of the other officers were beginning to stare at them.

"What I'm talking about is that how's it going to look when this mate of yours expects Sherlock to jump into bed with him and then finds out that he's a-," Nice Guy John managed to put the brakes on before Utter Bastard John said something that they would both regret.

"Finds out that Sherlock's what?" Lestrade questioned sharply.

"That he's… you know… that he's never… been with anyone like that," John muttered.

"How do you know that he hasn't been with anyone?" Lestrade asked as he quirked an eyebrow at John.

"Well… I don't, well not for definite," John admitted, "But it's not like he's makes it a habit to go off shagging every bloke he meets. Most people would probably think that's a bit weird."

"Well there you go then. I'm sure Sherlock will leave with his virtue intact. Unless he doesn't want to of course. Everyone needs a little bit of a release now and then, Sherlock especially. A good shag might be just what he needs," Lestrade smirked as he gave John another knowing looks.

A very large part of John's brain just wanted to scream "OH JUST GO FUCK YOURSELF!" very loudly at Lestrade and possibly punch him on the nose. Instead he turned and attempted to stalk away with his head held high only for Lestrade to catch hold of his arm and pull him back.

"Look John are you sure you're ok with this? I can tell my friend it's not going to happen if you would rather," Lestrade asked with real concern in his voice.

"Of course it's fine. Why wouldn't it be fine? It doesn't matter to me at all if Sherlock wants to run off with the first bloke that takes an interest in him, which is probably just because he's been in the press anyway, it's all perfectly fine. _I'm _perfectly fine," John said very well aware that his voice had taken on a slightly strangled tone and that he had used the word fine once too many times.

"Seriously John I can tell him no," Lestrade said gently as he tried to move John further behind the water cooler. He didn't need this conversation being used as office gossip; Sally had already glanced over at them twice.

"I said its fine Greg. Sherlock can go out and shag whoever he wants. It doesn't matter in the slightest to me," John said as he shook off Lestrade's grip on him and abruptly turned away only to find Sherlock standing directly behind him.

"I'm going back to the flat," he snapped as Sherlock gave him a very strange look. If Nice Guy John had been in the driving seat he would have noticed that a flicker of hurt passed in Sherlock's eyes. Instead Utter Bastard John shoved passed him and almost knocked Sally Donovan over as he marched out of the room.

Striding purposely down the stairs he scattered a few younger officers out of the way by barking angrily at them. Couldn't they see he was trying to get down the stairs in a hurry? This was all Lestrade's bloody fault. He had been in a perfectly good mood before all this silly date business. And why did Lestrade keep asking if John was ok? Why shouldn't he be ok? Sherlock was perfectly within his rights to date whoever he pleased. Just because some bloke had asked Lestrade to put in a good word for him didn't mean that Sherlock would even agree to the date. Sherlock wasn't exactly a people person and for all his intellect he was woefully inept when it came to normal social conventions.

On his way out of Scotland Yard he passed Anderson talking loudly on his phone.

"You're joking? Someone's asked that thing out on a date? I can't believe I missed that," Anderson crowed as he shoved passed John.

"Watch it!" John snarled as he stumbled out of the door.

"Oh it's you. Sally was just telling me all about Sherlock's big date," Anderson said as he grinned maliciously at John.

"Just sod off Anderson," John snapped as he started to walk away.

"Touchy, touchy Doctor. We all thought it would be you who got the first go around on the Freak. Maybe when he's got some practice in you can have a go!" Anderson shouted after him.

John muttered some very extravagant swear words under his breath as he hailed down a passing cab. Why was everyone so interested in Sherlock Holme's sex life all of a sudden?

"Where to mate?"

"221b Baker Street," John said as he slumped back against the seat, wishing all the while that he had just stayed at home and watched some crap telly.

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><p>Hope you all enjoyed the first chapter, the next one should be up within the next few days. xx<p> 


	2. Chapter 2

Once John returned to the flat he spent two hours aggressively cleaning the counter tops in the kitchen, bleaching the floor, cleaning out the fridge and fully de-greasing the oven. Suddenly everything he never seemed to mind about Sherlock's strange habits was really beginning to grate on him. This was probably due to the fact that he had just unearthed a bag of animal bones from the plate cupboard and found a jar of ears sitting next to the pickled onions in the fridge. John swore angrily as he threw anything that he didn't classify as a non-health hazard into a rubbish bag. He should probably thank Lestrade as this wouldn't be his job soon; Sherlock's new bloke could clean up after him and leave John to get on with his own stuff. Maybe if he wasn't spending half his life as an unpaid skivvy he could concentrate on some of his own hobbies. He wasn't sure what hobbies he'd like to have yet but he could sort that out later. Smirking to himself he wondered how long this chap would last once he started finding heads in the fridge and jars of eyeballs in the microwave.

Leaning back against the fridge he heaved a heavy sigh. Something was bothering him about today; he just couldn't put his finger on it. Irrational cleaning aside, John didn't think he felt this wound up in a very long time.

John was just attempting to tackle the hovel that was masquerading as their living room when he heard the front door slam and Sherlock's familiar footfalls on the stairs. John busied himself with clearing out all the old stacks of newspaper by the fireplace (health hazard) as Sherlock entered the living room.

"John," Sherlock said as he took his coat off and plonked himself down in his armchair, clearly not recognising the fact that John was attempting to clean.

John grunted by way of response and continued shoving handfuls of newspaper into the bin bag.

"John," Sherlock said again.

"What Sherlock?" John grumbled as he swept a mass of lose debris from the coffee table into a black bag.

"Why did you leave the Yard earlier?" Sherlock asked as he tucked his knees up to his chest.

"Because I had things to do Sherlock. I can't keep hanging around police station just because you feel like being an insufferable know-it-all," John snapped as Sherlock's knees retreated closer towards his chest, hiding his face from view. Where on earth was all this nastiness coming from?

They spent the next ten minutes in silence as John attempted to polish a hole through the table before Sherlock spoke again.

"John… Lestrade asked me something before I left today," Sherlock said as John closed his eyes and prayed silently that there weren't about to have _that_ conversation.

"I'm a bit busy here Sherlock, can't this wait?" John muttered as he sprayed yet more polish on the table.

"He asked me if I would go out on a date with one of his friends," Sherlock said, ignoring John completely and pronouncing the word date as he had never even heard of the concept before.

John sighed and sat back on the balls of his feet and turned to look at Sherlock. Clearly they were going to have _that _conversation. Sherlock was still curled up in his chair looking completely unflustered and as usual, unaware at any social awkwardness that the following conversation was about to produce. Sherlock clearly didn't understand that men don't talk about things like this and if they do it's down the pub after several pints.

"Oh… right. Well, are you going to go?" Well done John, dive straight in without checking the waters safe first.

Sherlock's supremely calm exterior suddenly wavered like a hologram and for a split second he looked as flustered as John felt.

"Well, that's not really…. I don't…," Sherlock stuttered which surprised John no end. The detective normally sounded like he'd swallowed a dictionary.

"Well it's not a difficult question is it? Either you go on the date or you don't," John as he made a move to stand up.

Sherlock scowled over at him, the cool exterior back in place almost instantly.

"Once again John you are asking completely the wrong questions," Sherlock snipped giving John a look that smacked of "Village Idiot".

John bristled instantly; he hated that look.

"Oh am I? Well seeing as you're so clever why don't you answer your own questions and leave me to do something useful, like tidying up after you!" John said as he clutched the can of polish tightly in his hand like a grenade.

Sherlock just scowled as John turned and almost skidded over on one of Sherlock's errant case files.

"Why can't you ever clean up after yourself? If I find anything else of yours lurking about I'm sticking it straight in the bin," John yelled as he slammed the case file down on the table and made his way back into the kitchen.

"Lestrade friend is a man," Sherlock blurted out suddenly, as if the entire previous conversation hadn't happened.

John sighed wearily as he started to clean the fridge again. Why couldn't Sherlock just for once understand the meaning of social norms?

"Right. Well…" John started off as he realised that Sherlock had trailed in after him, effectively boxing him into the kitchen with no means of escape. Bugger.

"It doesn't bother you then. Me going out with a man," Sherlock asked as he perched on the edge of the counter, his iridescent eyes unblinking as he held John's gaze.

"No Sherlock, it doesn't. You don't have to worry about anything like that with me," John sighed, the only truthful thing he had said for the first time since they started the conversation.

Sherlock seemed to consider this before continuing, "Do you think I should go out with him?"

John willed the ground to swallow him up, this really wasn't the type of conversation he wished to be having with Sherlock.

"It's up to you what you do Sherlock. If you want to go out with him then go right ahead," John said. Clearly Utter Bastard John wasn't done yet.

"Oh. Right," Sherlock said in a slightly muted voice as John managed to conceal himself back behind the fridge as he carried on with his cleaning.

"John?"

"What now Sherlock?" John snapped as he attempted to find a find at least one speck of dirt on the salad draw he hadn't already removed.

"What am I supposed to do?"

"What do you mean what are you supposed to do?"

"On this date thing. What am I supposed to do?"

John turned around to find Sherlock looking at him with very lost look on his face, like for once he had no data to draw upon to answer the problem before him.

"You've _never_ been out on a date before?" John said still managing to sound incredulous when in reality he really shouldn't have been that surprised.

"No," Sherlock said somewhat defensively.

John sighed heavily.

"Well... you just try and get to know him, ask him questions and stuff," John said awkwardly. This conversation had moved from being rather embarrassing into supremely awkward territory.

"Such as what?"

"For god sake Sherlock I can't do all this for you! Just talk about things you like and see if he's got anything in common," John snapped. Why were Sherlock's questions making him so tetchy?

"But that's boring. How about if ask him about what he thinks about Eysenck's views on how personality traits correlate with serial killers or-," John held his hands off to cut him off mid flow.

"No Sherlock you can't ask him things about crime or dead bodies or any other weird thing you've got floating around in your head," John said firmly.

"But that's what I find interesting. You said to talk about the things I like," Sherlock said who was beginning to look frustrated.

"Yeah well nobody else is going to find that stuff interesting are they? Just try and act at least vaguely normal, will you?" John said curtly. He knew he was being outrageously mean. A small part of him wanted to tell Sherlock to go ahead and talk about dead bodies all he wanted. Maybe this bloke would be put off and disappear out of their lives for good. However he didn't want this guy doing what everyone else seemed to do after spending five minutes with Sherlock and start calling him names like Freak or Weirdo.

"Is that what you'd like me to be then John? Normal? Just so I can fit into a perfect little box like everyone else?" Sherlock said mulishly as he gave John a very ugly look.

"No! I just don't want you getting hurt. Anyway, you're the one who asked me for advice!" John retorted.

"Well maybe I'll refrain from doing so in the future!"

A heavy silence descended down on them again, with half of John wishing he could just restart the conversation over again and the other half trying to restrain himself from begging Sherlock to cancel the date and stay in and watch Total Whipeout with him.

"What's this blokes name anyway?" John asked casually, he needed something to break the silence with and a name to report to the police later on if Sherlock turned up dead in a ditch somewhere because Lestrade had set him up with some unknown lunatic.

"No idea," Sherlock shrugged.

John stared at him.

"How can you go out with someone you don't know the name of? Didn't Lestrade tell you?"

"I didn't think to ask. I don't see what his names got to do with anything," Sherlock huffed.

"Well what does he look like?" John asked flabbergasted. He would at the very least need a vague description for the police to go on. He had been imagining a tall, gladiator type with long golden hair, perfect teeth, well educated, pots of money and a name like Hugo.

"Unlike you John, looks aren't all that important to me. I'm going to get ready," Sherlock said loftily as he stomped off to his bedroom in the manner of an unruly teenager.

John spent the next hour putting away his cleaning equipment and inadvertently staring at Sherlock's bedroom door, waiting for him to reappear. Stupid Lestrade. Why did he have to go a poke his nose in? Sherlock seemed perfectly happy on his own and now some stranger was just going to swoop in and take over. What if he started coming along to crime scenes? What if he didn't like Sherlock spending so much time with John? A sharp slither of tightness was beginning to spread across John's chest. Stumbling into his armchair he took a few deep breaths and tried to calm himself down. Sherlock hadn't even gone out of the door yet and he had already thrown himself on the rubbish heap. He just needed something to do, something to take his mind of the situation. He had already cleaned the kitchen within an inch of its life; if he put any more bleach down he would probably burn a hole in the floor. Mrs Hudson probably wouldn't be too chuffed about that. Maybe there was something on the telly? Grabbing the remote he flicked on BBC 1 just in time to catch the end of a nature documentary were some poor baby Gazelle was about to get eaten by a lion. Yes; this would do nicely to take his mind of things.

Sherlock reappeared an hour later looking rather resplendent in a fitted black suit with a feint pin stripe to it and a light blue shirt. His hair had been tamed slightly into submission and there was a subtle whiff of one of his less expensive cologne's coming off him. He looked as devastatingly handsome as ever but John couldn't help but feel that Sherlock was only putting in half the effort. If it were John he would have gone for that killer D&G purple shirt that accentuated the detectives pale skin, the plain black suit that he only wore if they went to the opera and the cologne that Mycroft had had especially made for his birthday. The one that made John's head feel a bit fuzzy and reminded him of something soft and sensual that he couldn't quite put his finger on. He would also have preferred that Sherlock had left his hair to flop about in its normal curly state but he supposed that maybe he was just being picky. Not that he ever thought about what he would dress Sherlock up in if they went out. Well not much anyway. Sherlock merely raised his eyebrows in way of a greeting as he pinned on his expensive handmade cufflinks.

John hovered awkwardly in the living room, suddenly wishing he didn't look like a complete slob. He had done his (and Sherlock's) washing the night before so he'd been relegated to his oldest pair of jeans and a shirt that was covered in various bits of grime from his overzealous cleaning. Maybe he should invest in some trendier clothes or something. Hugo could probably pull off all the latest fashion trends, he thought darkly. Sherlock straightened up and looked over at him and John felt his cheeks glow pink. Why couldn't he be dressed up nicely for once? Why did everything he own suddenly make him look like a granddad that had fallen on hard times? He was also fairly certain that he had gotten polish in his hair.

"Look, I'm sorry about before ok? I didn't mean to be rude, I was just trying to help," John said.

"It's fine," Sherlock said in a tone of indifference that John knew to mean that the detective was still in a mood with him.

John retreated back into the safety of the kitchen and tried not to keel over as the stench of bleach hit his nostrils. Surely there was something left for him to clean? Maybe the toaster needed de-crumbing or something.

"Do I look ok?" Sherlock said abruptly as he stood directly in front of John.

Johns mind went blank. Sherlock never, _ever_ asked him about his appearance. For what felt like a decade he just stared at Sherlock as white noise filled up his brain.

_Say something._

_Just say anything._

_Oh my god, he's looking at you like you've lost the plot._

_Which you have by the way._

_Utterly lost it._

_Mad._

_Just say some bloody words!_

"Errrm… yeah you look ok." Ok? Well done Shakespeare. Why did he say that? Sherlock looked a lot more than just ok but John just didn't seem to be able to convey that fact.

Sherlock gave him what John would class a disappointed look if John didn't know any better. But why would Sherlock care what John thought about the way he looked? Sherlock never cared about what anyone thought about him, irrespective of what clothes he had on.

"You've got polish in your hair by the way. Did you know?" Sherlock said as he went to the side board to pick his wallet up.

"Ohh…ummm… thanks," John mumbled as he felt his face flushed red again. Maybe he could convince Sherlock that Tramp Chic was in fashion?

"What will you be up to tonight then? Seeing one of your various girlfriends?"

"Nope. Got my own date with television set. Total Whipeout is on in a bit," John said as he checked his reflection in the kettle and frantically tried to scrub the polish out of his hair whilst Sherlock's back was turned.

"How droll," Sherlock said as he turned back around just as John was edging away from the kettle.

"Well at least you won't be here to ruin the ending for me," John quipped.

"Housewives and the over 50's always fall off those big red ball things first. You should know that by now John," Sherlock said seriously as John fought back the urge to laugh.

"So where is he taking you then?" John asked, just in case he needed to provide the police with more detailed information about Sherlock's whereabouts.

"Alain Ducasse," Sherlock said in perfect French as he picked up his coat and John felt his knees go a bit wobbly. Sherlock probably could have said 'park bench' in French and it would have sounded amazing.

John felt the coil of jealousy that had settled in his stomach tighten again, Alain Ducasse at the Dorchester Hotel was a three Michelin stared restaurant. Trust the flash git to take Sherlock somewhere it would cost John at least half a month's wage just to be able to afford a starter. Bloody Hugo.

"Right… well have a nice time," John said as if he was Sherlock's dad and that if he didn't come home by curfew he was going to lock the doors on him. He tried to force a smile out but from the look Sherlock was giving him it wasn't really working.

"Don't do anything I wouldn't do," He said lamely.

Sherlock was giving him that weird look again, like he waiting for John to say something else, before he gathered up his coat just as a car horn beeped outside.

"Have a nice evening John. Enjoy Total Whipeout," Sherlock said curtly as he swept out of the flat leaving John standing alone in the kitchen.

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><p>Hope you all enjoyed the second chapter, the third one should be up in the next few days. :)<p> 


	3. Chapter 3

John waited exactly two minutes after he heard the front door slam before he vaulted over the back of the sofa, ignoring the stabbing pain in his leg as he smashed into the table, and dashed over to the window. Wincing slightly, he managed to conceal himself behind the curtain and peep down onto the street only to see a black cab speeding away. Bugger. The by now familiar churning of dislike towards Detective Inspector Lestrade was starting to kick in again. Lestrade had known Sherlock for five years and in all that time he had never once taken an interest in setting Sherlock up with anyone. Why was he now rolling out dates all of a sudden? And why did they have to be with Amazonian blonde men with fast cars and stunning good looks which meant that nobody else had a look in? Swearing loudly to himself, John limped back into the kitchen and grabbed himself a beer from the spotlessly clean fridge.

It was nice, he told himself, having the flat all to himself as he sat back down on the sofa and flicked the telly on. He could watch what he wanted on telly for once without a continuous running monologue of how rubbish it was or the ending being spoilt. If he really wanted to he could even sit around in his pants with a beer in his hand like he used to do in his student days. All in all John was sure he could have a very pleasant evening all by himself, thank you very much.

Half an hour later John was sat on the sofa with a bear in his hand and wearing nothing but a t-shirt and his pants bored out of his skull. Why was it that now he had the television all to himself he just found all his usual programmes desperately dull? Bloody Sherlock, he thought as turned the volume up louder in the hope that this would make Jill, a 27 year old accountant from Liverpool, falling head first off a giant inflatable balloon into a swimming pool seem more appealing. He could always give his blog a go, although there wasn't much he had to type up but at least it was better than watching another middle aged man be knocked over on their arse by the force of a water cannon. Dragging his laptop out from underneath a stack of case files, John set to work.

Ten minutes later John had not written one word on his blog, apart from changing a to into a too. What he had managed to do was navigate himself onto the Alain Ducasse website and download a copy of the menu. This was of course purely based around the fact that he could gage if he needed to get in any more food in over the weekend. If Sherlock was going to eat a big meal he was likely not to need feeding again soon.

John scowled as he saw that the menu was written entirely in French. John had managed to claw out of Sherlock that his maternal grandmother was French but he wasn't sure if Lestrade had also been aware of that fact. Hugo probably thought it would make him look even more impressive if he could read the whole menu without having to resort to Google translate as John was about to do. He really should have paid more attention in GCSE French. On closer inspection John managed to figure out that the Ducasse menu really was as posh as he had originally thought. They probably had a sign on the door that said 'No Commoners Allowed'.

Why did there have to be so many courses? Appetisers, Cheese, Meat, Fish. How long was this bloody meal going to last? At this rate Sherlock wouldn't be back in time to watch Rocky, one of John's favourites, which was on at eleven. The appetisers all seemed to be shellfish, or they were according to Google translate, which John immediately felt very smug about. Sherlock hated shellfish. Next was the fish and meat menu but Google's translation skills seemed to be letting him down as he didn't think that even Sherlock would fancy eating pan fried cardboard. Marshalling his memory he dredged up the remnants of his GCSE French lessons and managed to work out that one dish was Veal, another no-no. Sherlock wasn't a fan of red meat and John remembered vividly a very long and confusing lecture Sherlock had given him about the genetics of farmed meat. Or something like that anyway. Glancing back down at the menu John deduced that the only thing Sherlock would be quite happy consuming was the desert menu. The detective had a ridiculously sweet tooth and anything sugary would mysteriously disappear almost as soon as it arrived in the flat. John constantly nagged him about needing to eat a proper diet but it seemed to go in one ear and out the other. Or John would be treated to the 'Transport' nonsense again. If Sherlock had his way he would quite happily live of chocolate biscuits and cups of tea.

Stupid Hugo. Why did he have to pick this Saturday night to take Sherlock out? Why couldn't he wait until next Wednesday or some other day in the distant future? John had been going to make them both omelettes, he'd gotten a special cheese and everything. Now Sherlock was off in some snobby restaurant eating bits of baby cow and other things John couldn't pronounce. _And_ Sherlock had seemed dead keen on trying one of John's omelettes. Sherlock never showed interest in any form of food unless it contained twice the amount of sugar then any normal person would require. He could always make them tomorrow but Sherlock would probably be so full of posh food he wouldn't require any more nourishment John thought miserably.

Clearly this Hugo person had no consideration for any plans that other people might have made with Sherlock. He just swooped in like some big posh oaf and took over everything with no regards for other people's feelings. Then again Sherlock could have easily cancelled his date and spent the evening in like they had planned. Well not that they had planned anything per say, it was only omelettes and a film, but John was there first! Surely Sherlock should have chosen John over some stranger? Clearly not otherwise Sherlock would be sat here on the sofa with him, eating an omelette and preparing to watch Rocky Balboa beat the shit out of Apollo Creed. John wondered idly about what would happen if a case came through. Nothing stood in the way of work for Sherlock so it was a safe assumption that Hugo would find himself finishing his meal alone if a case arose. John decided that he would need to keep his phone close by just in case Sherlock called or text him. Ohhh, speak of the devil!

John lunged for his phone only to be left staring at a blank screen before he realised that the ring tone was coming from something on the television. Still, he might as well check his messages whilst he had his phone out. Nothing. Maybe the signal was bad in the living room? Perhaps leaving it by the window would help, the signal always seemed to be stronger when he was over by the window. Grabbing his phone and charger, just in case the battery was low, John set his phone down on the window sill and plugged the charger in. There, now there was no chance he would miss any calls or texts that came through.

John went back to the sofa and just as Total Wipeout was finishing. Take Me Out would be starting soon on the other side, something which John secretly loved but could never watch when Sherlock was about. The detective always managed to pick out who would turn their lights off before the show had even gotten underway. Maybe he could get Sherlock to be a contestant on the show, he thought ruefully. John was five minutes into the episode before he suddenly realised that his phone was on silent. Dashing to the window he fiddled with the volume before finding that it was already on the loudest setting. Odd, surely Sherlock would have text something by now? Sherlock texted him every five minutes of the day in what appeared to be one long continuous stream of consciousness, irrespective of where of what John was doing at the time. Maybe his phone was broken? What if Sherlock had been trying to text or call and not been able to get through?

Digging under the mountains of paper, books and other clutter on the table in the corner of the living room John finally managed to locate the telephone buried underneath a stack of old newspapers. Neither John nor Sherlock had ever used the landline but he was pretty certain he remembered Mrs Hudson saying it worked. Picking up the receiver he heard the dialling tone which was a good sign. Grabbing his mobile he scrolled through his contacts until he found the entry listed under 'My Mobile' and tapped the number in. It was a great source of amusement to Sherlock that John still couldn't remember his own mobile number but, as John often pointed out; at least he had a basic grasp of primary school physics. A piercingly loud ring tone suddenly erupted from the mobile in John's hand, almost deafening him. Ending the call quickly John summarised somewhat dejectedly that his phone had no problems receiving calls. Still he should at least check his voicemail just to be on the safe side. Tapping in the number for his voicemail he waited until he heard the voice of the automated woman giving him instructions.

"Welcome To Orange Answerphone. To Listen To Your Messages Press One."

John did as instructed and pressed the one button.

"You Have No New Messages."

John blinked down at his phone somewhat disbelievingly, he couldn't think of a time when Sherlock hadn't text or rang him even if it was something ridiculous. Like the time when he wanted to know how much the average human foot sweated or reminding John to buy teabags. Oh, right. Clearly Sherlock didn't need him any more now he had Hugo. He flopped back on the sofa with a heavy sigh. Maybe he should text Sherlock just to see how things were going? No, that wasn't a very good idea. Clearly things were going very well and Sherlock wouldn't want John sticking his nose into his private business. He could always give it another half an hour and then text him, just to let Sherlock know that he was still awake if he wanted a date debrief. Yes that was a good idea. Letting Sherlock know that John was completely fine about him going out with a man was a good idea. He could even offer an outsiders view of how the date had gone and what Sherlock's next move should be. Or, even if there was a move to be made. Sherlock might not want to see Hugo again after all. Maybe he would decide that dating wasn't for him after all. Johns thought pattern was cut off by his mobile suddenly ringing. Snatching the phone up he answered it on the second ring.

"Hello? Sher-," He said only to be cut off by the sounds of someone vomiting loudly at the other end.

"Sherlock?"

"Hello Johnny Boy," Harry slurred drunkenly down the phone at him.

John's heart sank although he wasn't sure what he was more depressed about, the fact that it wasn't Sherlock who was calling or that Harry was back on the booze again.

"Harry what did I tell you about ringing me when you're drunk?"

"Shhhh it's a secret, we can't tell Johnny Boy," Harry giggled, whilst a loud crashing noise could be heard in the background.

"Harry what did I tell you about ringing me when you're drunk?"

"Why you sooo mean to me, Johnny?" Harry sobbed childishly but had to stop hallway through to retch again.

John rubbed his eyes tiredly; he really didn't want to go through this again.

"Just get some help Harry," John said.

"You're a fucking useless brother, did you know that Johnny? You never help me! I bet if I had curly hair and a dick you'd be straight round here," Harry suddenly spat maliciously.

And there she was, the good old drunken Harry that John was all too familiar with.

"Call me when you're sober," John said curtly and he disconnected the call.

John groaned loudly, this was all he needed. Why couldn't Harry just stay sober for five minutes? Why did she insist on ruining her life and destroying the people that cared about her all for the sake of a few drinks?

John suddenly caught sight of the time; it was almost half past twelve. A horrible thought crept up on him. What if Sherlock brought Hugo back to the flat? What if they wanted to have a bit of fun on the sofa or go into Sherlock's room only to find John sat moping on the sofa like Miss Havisham in his pants, clutching a beer bottle? Although thinking about it maybe he should just stay put. If Sherlock came home with his new man in tow it would give John a chance to introduce himself properly. The earlier conversation he had had with Sherlock had proved to John that the detective had a complete blind spot when it came to anything of the romantic or sexual nature. Yes, he told himself, that was a good plan. By meeting this man he could advise Sherlock properly if he should want to take things further. John could foresee no problems with this decision, apart from possibly coming across as a slightly deranged stalker/flatmate but that was beside the point.

Catching sight of himself in the mirror above the fireplace John realised that he really had taken tramp chic to a whole new level. His hair was sticking up in various peaks and waves after trying to scrub the polish out earlier and the whole pants and t-shirt look probably wasn't the best way to greet someone. He'd look like a right slob if Hugo turned up in a glamorous and expensive designer suit. The smug bastard probably had a tailor and everything. He really should get changed; he didn't want to embarrass Sherlock either.

Half an hour later John returned after having a quick shower and a shave, he had even put a bit of product in his hair to spruce himself up a bit. He had found a clean shirt lurking in the back of his wardrobe. It was a bit on the small side but it would have to do for now. Maybe he should put some aftershave as well? No that was going a tad too far. He would just sit here, finish watching Rocky and wait for Sherlock to get home.

John managed to get half way through Rocky before he felt his mind begin to wander again. Sherlock could of course go back to Hugo's flat for the night instead, giving John no opportunity to scrutinise him down to the very last detail. The thought that Sherlock might not come home tonight started to make John feel slightly devastated so he wedged that thought right into the back of his mind. Thinking about Sherlock spending the night with some unknown stranger was just too much for his brain to process. John didn't think that Sherlock would be the type to sleep with someone on the first date, not that he really had any idea about Sherlock's sexual habits. There were never any condoms kept in the bathroom cabinet, John had checked, but it was probably more realistic to assume that Sherlock would keep things like that in his bedroom. Even as he thought about it, he could already feel himself drifting towards Sherlock's bedroom. The rational part of John realised that he was being utterly ridiculous, possessive and slightly insane whilst the other part, the part that jumped of rooftops and rugby tackled criminals, was already pushing the detective's bedroom door open…

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><p>Hope you all enjoyed reading the third chapter! I hope to have the next chapter up soon. :)<p> 


	4. Chapter 4

John almost broke his kneecaps as he tripped over one of the detective's errant shoes and went crashing to the floor. Swearing loudly he tried to struggle back up again only to tangled up in a jumble of clothes, sheets, cutlery and other objects that had no place being in a bedroom. After shaking off one of Sherlock's shirts that had gotten coiled around his leg, John straightened up and took in his surroundings.

It was strange being inside Sherlock's sanctuary, the one place that John could never follow him too. Sure, he had stood in the doorway twice, hovered awkwardly behind the closed door and lurked in the hallway when the detective had been inside. Not that he was counting or anything. Everything form the state of the art sound system to the massive double bed seemed to be top of the range stuff and way out of John's price range. He had a strong suspicion that most of the furniture was Mycroft's doing as Sherlock would quite happily sleep on the floor if John would let him.

John sat down on the bed and bounced up and down on it experimentally. Nice firm mattress he noted. Next he flopped backwards rolled around onto the sheets. God, they smelt like Sherlock. That strange mix of cinnamon, tea, chemicals and something John couldn't quite put his finger on. Rolling over he grabbed one of Sherlock's pillows, stuffed his face into it and inhaled. Mmmmmm. Without even realising he was doing it, John began to grind his hips down into the mattress. Being this close to Sherlock but not actually touching him was driving his senses crazy and he began to thrust his hips harder into the mattress. Suddenly he came to back down to earth. This wasn't right; this was demeaning and degrading to use the bed that Sherlock slept in as some kind of masturbation tool. Scrambling off the bed, his face burning with shame, John attempted to make the bed back up the way it was before. Sherlock was going to know he had been in here, he just prayed the detective would never be able to figure out what John had almost done all over his nice posh sheets.

John moved over towards the relative safety of the bookcase that occupied the far corner of the room. Hopefully checking out the condense of Sherlock's bookshelf would help him ignore the throbbing erection that currently making itself known between his legs. It didn't escape Johns notice that the books in Sherlock's bedroom were neatly put away in alphabetical order, unlike the books in the living room that were spilling out all over the place. Frowning in annoyance he was about to pull one of the volumes off the shelf before he chided himself mentally. Sherlock probably had every particle of dust memorized and would know instantly if something had been disturbed. Glancing up an ornate silver photo frame nestled neatly amongst the mounds of books had caught his eye. Curiosity got the better of him this time and he reached up and plucked the frame of the shelf.

In the photo was, quite frankly, one of the fattest ten year olds John had ever seen wedged into a leather armchair. A thick thatch of hair adorned his head and he was wearing what appeared to be a rather tight school uniform. Sherlock hadn't been kidding when he said that Mycroft had been a bit over weight as a child. Perched in his vast lap was a very small toddler with piles of dark curly hair and a little buttoned nose. John smiled to himself as he held up the frame for a closer look. Toddler Sherlock, who could have been no older than two, was wearing a pair of Thomas the Tank pyjamas with matching slippers and was snuggled against Mycroft's chest, sucking his thumb. Looking closer John could see that Mycroft was actually reading his little brother 'Treasure Island'. John smiled to himself; clearly at some point the Holmes brothers had gotten along just fine. Sometimes John forgot that Sherlock hadn't just sprung up from the ground, fully formed and just like everyone else he must have had a mother and father. Who and where they were now John was doubtful that he would ever know. Still, it was nice seeing a little window into Sherlock's childhood. Sherlock was so guarded in regards to anything that required an emotional attachment or investment and John didn't feel it wise to ask about his parents, mainly because he was worried that perhaps it was too painful for Sherlock to discuss. Plus he didn't think Sherlock would appreciate him snooping about in his bedroom. Placing the photo frame back carefully he glanced around the room feeling a fresh bout of nerves kick in. If Sherlock suddenly returned home he would never make it back to the living room without being caught.

Moving away from the bookshelf he glanced back around the room. He still couldn't put his finger on why he had come in here. It wasn't like Sherlock was going too set out a condom and a bottle of lubricant on his bedside table. John fidgeted uncomfortably. The idea of Sherlock sleeping with some random stranger was making his head ache. Sherlock needed, no deserved, someone that could see past the pretty packaging, the fitted suit and all that ridiculous hair. He needed someone that could look past the façade Sherlock put and see the vastly more fragile and vulnerable person underneath it. John scowled suddenly; Hugo was probably one of those blokes who were only interested in getting his leg over for the evening. A quick shag and then you get shoved out the door. This thought made him feel decided uneasy. What if Hugo just got what he wanted for the evening and then just ditched Sherlock? John didn't think that Sherlock had enough emotional experience, let alone sexual experience, to be able to cope with something like that. How was John supposed to deal with that? In all honesty it would have been better for all involved if Sherlock had just stayed in with John and watched Total Wipeout.

Shaking his head, as if he could force out all the negative thoughts and feelings of unease, John moved around to the rest of the room. It amused him slightly that Sherlock's bedroom was an odd juxtaposition of being obsessively neat and looking like a bomb had gone off. A variety of clothes were strewn across the bed; shirts, a security jacket, trousers and strangely enough, one of Johns jumpers. The top two draws of the chest of draws were wide open with their contents spilling out onto the floor. John knew he shouldn't, he had always prided himself that out of the two them he had always respected Sherlock's privacy, but his hand was already inching towards the top draw…

In his mind John tried to tell himself that he was just doing Sherlock a favour, even if he was rooting around to see if the detective had any condoms secreted away in his bedroom. It was highly doubtful that Sherlock would keep condoms in a normal place like a top draw anyway. They'd probably be kept in a jar somewhere or stashed inside a book. Not that John was interested in where Sherlock kept his condoms. None had ever materialised in the bathroom cupboard in all the time they had lived together so John had just assumed that Sherlock must keep them in his room. Well, that was if Sherlock even owned any. John really hoped that he wouldn't have what was bound to be a very long and awkward conversation with Sherlock about the importance of safe sex. The top draw was mainly filled with underwear; Sherlock seemed to favour a simple tight brief. John rummaged a bit further towards the back until his fingers closed around something soft. Pulling his hand out he found a pair of black silk briefs clenched in his fist. His breathing faltered slightly as he ran the soft the material through his fingers. At least this, in some way, proved that Sherlock was a little bit interested in sex. Wasn't the rule with black silk underwear that you didn't buy it unless you wanted someone else to see it? John could feel a familiar heat pooling in his groin and he immediately shoved the underwear into the back of the drawer. He desperately tried to ignore the fact that what he really wanted to do was lie down on Sherlock's bed, get his cock out, wrap Sherlock's underwear around his erection and wank until he came all over the silk material. He shifted uncomfortably as his erection began to make itself know again.

He was already cutting a very fine line between Helpful Flatmate and Creepy Flatmate that fondles the unsuspecting flatmates underwear. He couldn't go around getting off on Sherlock's underwear like a dirty pervert. John suddenly had a mental image of himself being carted away by police officers as news camera crews surrounded the flat, informing the public that 'The Lurker' had finally been caught and Sherlock in floods of tears telling a reporter "I thought he was just an ordinary flatmate, I didn't think he'd go through my underwear draw!"

This was a mistake; he should never have come in here in the first place.

John bolted from the room and ran up the short flight of stairs to his bedroom and locked the door, as if this would prevent the sudden surge of realisation hitting him. He paced up and down his room, a strange mixture of anger and frustration stirred through his veins. Trying to convince himself he had Sherlock's best interests at heart just wasn't going to work anymore. This whole being just friends business could never work when John so clearly and desperately wanted more. Perhaps the worst feeling of all was that he had probably by now lost his chance at ever having a relationship with Sherlock. He had been so stupid! Sherlock had been right there under his nose for all these months but he had just pushed any feeling he had aside. When it became clear that Sherlock was, shall we say, rather innocent when it came to things of a sexual nature John had forced himself to not think of his flatmate in that way. It wasn't fair on him or Sherlock to expect something from the detective that he could never give. Or at least John thought he could never give. He should have just told Sherlock how he felt from the start. Even if Sherlock hadn't reciprocated his feelings John was certain that he wouldn't just cut John off and end their friendship completely. It wasn't like he went round thinking inappropriate thoughts about his flatmate all day long either. He had only ever thought about Sherlock once when he wanked and after the deed was done he felt so ashamed he had pushed the detective to the very back of his mind. Sherlock deserved more then to just be John's mucky little fantasy. It wasn't that John even minded that Sherlock appeared to have no knowledge when it came to relationships, it was more that he felt ashamed with himself for even thinking about Sherlock in that way. When it came to Sherlock, John had all ways adopted a look but don't touch policy, it was just now becoming apparent that others didn't seem to want to follow this rule.

Throwing himself down on the bed John heaved out a heavy sigh, suddenly he felt like he wanted to burst into tears. Sherlock was the best thing that had ever happened to him and now he was going to lose him to some posh public school boy with a silly name. There were times when John thought, just for a split second, that Sherlock might feel the same way about him. But if he did why had he gone on this date with Hugo? Why didn't he just stay in with John like they normally did? Cursing himself, John wished he had said something sooner, months ago in fact. When Sherlock had come down the stairs all dressed up John should have taken hold of him, sat him down and told him how he felt. At least then it would have been out in the open and Sherlock could have made a more informed decision about his date. If only Sherlock had known, then John wouldn't have had to resort to snooping around in his underwear draw like a crazy person. He felt a bolt of heat flash to his groin when he thought about the silk briefs he had found. His mind started to wander as he thought about that lovely plush arse covered in silk, what he wouldn't give just touch it just once. The thin cotton of his underwear was doing nothing to conceal the erection that was currently straining against the material. Maybe he could touch himself just one more time? His hand was already starting to brush against the straining mound of flesh between his legs before he pulled his hand back like he had been burned. Disgusted with himself, John rolled over onto his front and fought the desperate urge to just hump the mattress into oblivion. It wasn't right thinking of Sherlock in that way. Closing his eyes and breathing deeply, John tried to force all thoughts of a silk underwear clad detective out of his mind.

John jolted awake to the sound of his phone ringing. Fumbling around in the darkness he found the switch for his bedside lap and turned it on. Squinting hard at the clock he saw it was half past three in the morning, how had that happened? He had only shut his eyes for five minutes. Aware that his phone was still ringing loudly next to him, John grabbed hold of it and looked at the screen. He didn't recognise the call but the same number had rung him over twenty times since he had been asleep.

"Hello?" He mumbled groggily.

"Am I speaking to a Mr John Watson?"

"Yes, who is this? Do you have any idea what time it is?"

"I'm calling from Kings College Hospital; we've got a patient here that's asked for us to contact you."

John groaned loudly to himself and flopped back down onto his bed. Why couldn't Harry just stay of the booze like she promised she would?

"Look, just tell her I'll be down to pick her up in the morning. Give her a chance to sober up before I can start shouting at her."

"Her? I'm sorry sir but I think you must be mistaken. It's a Mr Sherlock Holmes that's been asking after you."

John sat bolt upright, a sick feeling of dread passed through his body.

"What's wrong with him? Is he ok?"

"He'll be fine but he's been asking after you. I think it would be best if you could get down here quickly sir."

"Tell him I'm on my way," John said as he quickly ended the call.

Without giving it a second thought John rammed his clothes on at lightning speed, not caring that his jumper was on inside out and that he had two different types of socks on. Grabbing his keys, phone he paused briefly to scribble a note to Mrs Hudson just in case she came in in the morning, and all but ran out of the front door.

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><p>*waves sheepishly* Sorry this has taken me so long to update but I'm currently in the process of moving to a different part of the country and starting a new job. I'm back up to speed now though, hope you all enjoy chapter four! xxx<p> 


	5. Chapter 5

John sat in the back of the taxi contemplating every possible scenario that might have landed Sherlock in hospital, ranging from the detective being pursued by a criminal gang, falling in the Thames and being savaged by an elephant. True, the chances of an elephant being loose in central London where slim but when it came to Sherlock Holmes John didn't feel like he could leave anything unconsidered. After what seemed like an age, the taxi pulled up outside the entrance to Kings College Hospital and John flung himself out and sprinted like he was training for the Olympics all the way up to the hospital reception desk.

"Sherlock," he gasped as he bent double and clutched a stich in his side, "Sherlock."

A full name, perhaps even a vague description, would probably have been more use to the startled looking receptionist.

"Goodness Sir, are you alright?"

"Sherlock" John said again as he clung onto the desk for support, he probably shouldn't have had so much to drink earlier.

"Would that be a Mr Sherlock Holmes you're referring too?" the receptionist asked as John tried to gulp down some air and nod at the same time, "Oh thank God, we've been waiting for your Dr Watson. He's in the second ward on the third floor."

"Thank you," John wheezed as he stumbled off to find a lift.

As soon as he was out of sight from the receptionist John broke into a run, neatly sidestepping an elderly lady in a wheelchair, and made a mad dash towards the hospital lifts. There wasn't anybody else waiting so he jabbed the button repeatedly and stood back to watch the numbers count down to the first floor.

"C'mon, c'mon, hurry up you big heap of sh-"

The doors opened suddenly to reveal a heavily pregnant woman and her husband staring at him. The woman's husband put his hand instinctively across his wife's bump, as if John might suddenly run at them and attack. He smiled briefly at them as they ambled out of the lift and pressed the button for the third floor. As the lift doors closed john let out the breath he hadn't realised he had been holding in. What the hell had happened to Sherlock? The ride up could have taken no longer than a minute but it felt like an eternity to John; he still didn't even know what Sherlock's injuries were. Finally the doors opened and he made his way towards the second ward. He had barely gone three feet when he heard the shouting;

"I said get off me; you have no authority to keep me here against my will!"

"Mr Holmes _please_ get back into bed!"

"I will not! Release me immediately!"

"If you don't get back into bed, I'm going to call the doctor and get you sedated!"

"What, so you can steal the rest of my things? You've already taken my clothes from me!"

The scene that met John as he rounded the corner looked like some form of bizarre battle of wills with a very exasperated looking nurse, who was trying to force a very ill-tempered looking Sherlock back into his hospital bed. Sherlock was wavering unsteadily beside the bed in a very thin looking hospital gown and was trying to unsuccessfully push his way past. The nurse lunged forward and managed to get Sherlock's lower half back under the blankets but was clearly having trouble with his wildly flailing upper body.

"Nobody is stealing your clothes Mr Holmes. Maybe if you had a little lie down you would feel a bit better, hmmm?" The poor nurse sounded desperate as she tried to push Sherlock back down again.

If John didn't know any better he would have said that Sherlock was drunk or worse still like he had fallen back into his cocaine habit.

"Sherlock," John half shouted as he got closer towards Sherlock's bed.

"John! Where on _earth_ have you been? Never mind," Sherlock slurred as John opened his mouth to speak. He really didn't sound at all well.

"Tell this, _this_ 'Shirley', he said as he squinted hard at the nurses name badge, 'that I shall be leaving the hospital this instant."

"Mr Holmes I've already told you that you can't go home until the doctors seen you and at the very least you have to wait for the aesthetic to wear off," Shirley the Nurse said as she tried to push him back down again. As she did so John saw that Sherlock's right arm was encased in a plaster cast and was being held up in a sling around his neck.

"Sherlock what the hell happened to you?" John cried as he reached Sherlock's bed.

"That isn't important. Now listen here Shirley, John is a fully qualified doctor, he was even in the army, and can assist me with anything I need at home. Now if you would stop standing around like a gormless idiot and hand me my clothes I shall be on my way."

Shirley the Nurse bristled slightly at being called a gormless idiot and with a particularly hard shove she managed to get Sherlock to lie back down. Quicker than lightning she had the blankets firmly encased around him preventing Sherlock from causing any more of a scene. Giving him a satisfactory smile, which he returned with a glare, she turned to John.

"Right and you are sir?"

"John Watson, sorry I would have got here sooner but I only just got the call. What's happened to him?"

"Excuse me but I am still here you know! I might have a broken arm but I'm not deaf," Sherlock snapped suddenly from his cocoon of blankets.

Shirley the Nurse gave John a dubious look as if to say the oddball that she was currently in charge of couldn't possibly be friends with a Doctor.

"When he says Doctor does he mean you're his personal doctor?" she questioned.

"Yes, we live together as well."

"See I told you. You should have paid attention the first time Shirley," Sherlock butt in rather unhelpfully.

"And what type of doctor are you?" Shirley the Nurse asked. Something about the way she was speaking was a bit off.

"Oh God, I'm not his psychiatrist! Look, I know he might come off as bit unbalanced but he's not crazy! Sherlock just doesn't really like hospitals that much. Or other people for that matter," John garbled, hoping to avoid a scenario which involved him having to break Sherlock out of a psychiatric ward under the cover of darkness.

Shirley the Nurse seemed to be satisfied by this as she had stopped looking at John like she was debating whether or not she should call security. Suddenly there was a bleeping noise coming from the other end of the ward.

"Sorry I've got to get that, I'll be back as soon as I can to discuss your boyfriends injuries," Shirley the Nurse said as she spend of down the ward.

The phrase 'He's not my boyfriend' didn't even make it make it pasts John's lips. Honestly, what was the point anymore? A loud ripping noise brought him back down to earth as he turned back to find Sherlock had successfully pulled himself free of his blankets.

"Careful Sherlock, you're going to hurt yourself if you don't stop this!" John chided as he placed himself in-between Sherlock and the bed, just in case the detective made a break for it.

"I want to go John; I need to get out of here! I want my bed and my things, I don't like it here!" Sherlock said, looking suitably deranged as he attempted to get out of bed.

"Sherlock, will you just calm down please?" John said desperately as the detective was beginning to become hysterical and the old man opposite them was craning his head to get a better look at them.

"Get this out of me, John get it out!" Sherlock shouted as he started trying to pull the drip out from the back of his hand.

John moved forward quickly and pulled Sherlock's good hand away from the drip and held it firmly by his side. The detective was starting to tremble and was looking frantically around him, his eyes as wide as saucers.

"I need to leave now! You promised, you promised I COULD GO HOME!" Sherlock shouted as he tried to shove his way past John. Even drugged up and out of it Sherlock still had a vice like grip but John managed to hold him firmly by the shoulders and set him back down.

"Sherlock, you need To. Calm. Down. Nobody is going to leave you here, least of all me. Just let me help you," John said in a soothing tone, hoping that Sherlock might settle down a bit.

"I don't need help! I don't need anyone; I am perfectly capable of looking after myself just like I've all ways done!" Sherlock shouted as he tried to push John away from him.

"Well I'm here now so you don't need to do this on your own!" John snapped back as he tried to push Sherlock back down again.

"If I wanted or needed you to be here then you would have been here hours ago instead of being sat at home watching one of your mind numbing television shows!" Sherlock spat viciously as he batted John's hands away.

It was slowly beginning to dawn on John that perhaps the reason that Sherlock was so wound up and aggravated was that he had probably been in the hospital for at least four hours by himself. Add too that a broken arm and you were left with one very miserable Consulting Detective.

"Sherlock, do you really think I would have left you in here on your own for all this time if I had known that you were here? I rushed straight over here as soon as I got the call! I put my jumper on inside out for god sake!"

"I don't want to stay here; you promised I could go home! You said you wouldn't leave me here!" Sherlock slurred incoherently but he wasn't shouting anymore, he was crying.

Instantly John moved forward and gathered Sherlock up in his arms, he could feel Sherlock shaking even when he wrapped his arms tightly around him. They remained like that for some time as John gently rocked Sherlock back and forth until the small sobbing noise he had been making quieted down.

"Shhh, shhh, shhh," John said softly as he tried to soothe the man in his arms, "It's okay, I'm not going to leave you here. You're going to come straight home with me once I find a doctor.

Sherlock's free hand was clutching at Johns jumper as he burrowed his face into John's chest. Once he was sure the other man had calmed down enough he moved back and took Sherlock's face in his hands. Using his thumbs he gently brushed away the tear stains from Sherlock's cheeks.

"If you lay down for five minutes I will go and see what I can do about getting you out of here, ok?" Sherlock nodded but as John turned away he reached out and grabbed him by the elbow,

"Sherlock? What's wrong? I thought you wanted to leave?"

Sherlock just tugged him more insistently and John got the gist; stay, just for a little bit. Lying back down on the bed he waited as Sherlock curl up quietly around him, his thin fingers still retaining a tight grip on John's jumper. He let Sherlock settle for around ten minutes before he made a move to get up.

"I'm going to try and find the Doctor ok? Will you be all right on your own for a bit? I can get the nurse back if you want," John said but Sherlock was already shaking his head firmly.

"Ok, no more nurses," he said as he stood up and pulled the thin blankets around Sherlock, "I'll be as quick as I can."

It took John almost fifteen minutes to track down a very harassed looking doctor on the other side of the ward.

"Sorry which one is your friend? The one who's been shouting or the one who's already bitten three of my nurses?" Doctor Hanley enquired as he thumbed through his patient notes.

"The one who's been shouting. I don't think he's bitten anybody, well at least not to my knowledge. His name is Sherlock and-" John said but the Doctor cut him off.

"Ahh yes Mr Holmes, bed eight, ward two. Interesting fellow. Would you mind coming with me so I can have a word in private, Mr?" Doctor Hanley asked.

"Watson. John Watson. Well, Doctor Watson actually."

"Doctor ehh? Oh good that will make this much easier," Doctor Hanley said as he steered John towards a small office at the end of the ward.

"Right, Doctor Watson take a seat. I'll just grab your friends file."

John sat himself down in a very uncomfortable plastic seat that was opposite the doctors desk. It felt very odd being on the other side of the desk for once.

"Right here we go," said Doctor Hanley as he sat down opposite John with Sherlock's file, "patient has a broken right radius that required setting and putting into a cast, bruising to the rib cage and face. We did a CT scan to make sure that there was no head trauma and dosed him up with pain killers. Aside from the obvious he seems in relatively good health, although he could do with gaining a bit of weight."

John shifted defensively in his seat. He'd like to see this young upstart try and force a generous helping of Shepard's Pie down the neck of Sherlock Holmes when he was having one of his monumental sulks.

"But do you know how he got into that state in the first place? I've asked him I can't get much sense out of him," John asked as Doctor Hanley looked back down at his notes.

"All it says here is that he turned up at reception, said his name and then collapsed on the floor. I think the aesthetic and the pain meds he's been given have had a bit of an adverse effect on him. He'll be ok once they've worn off."

"But I can take him home with me tonight can't I? I've got my medical card if you want to check," John said as he dug around in his wallet for his identification, "He'll really be much better if he's at home."

Doctor Hanley took the card from John's outstretched fingers and checked it over before handing it back.

"To be honest I could use the bed, its Saturday night and we're pushed for space as it is. If you're sure you can cope with him, I'll give you a prescription for some strong pain killers and you can take him home with you,"

"I assure you Doctor he'll be fine with me, I'll take good care of him."

John made his way back to the ward to find Sherlock attempting to use his shirt as a pair of trousers.

"John! Where have you been? You've been gone ages!" Sherlock snapped as he tried to put his foot through his shirt sleeve.

"You do realise that's your shirt you're trying to put your legs into?" John said as he pulled the shirt out of Sherlock's grasp.

Sherlock looked blearily at his shirt and poked his finger at the large rip in the sleeve.

"Thieves," he muttered as he thrust it out at John, "Look John, look what they've done to my shirt!"

"Sherlock it was like that when you came in, the doctor I just spoke to told me. At least the hole will make it easier to get your cast into the sleeve," John said mildly as he took the shirt and tried to think how best to get Sherlock dressed. The detective was only wearing a thin hospital gown and John wasn't even sure if he even had underwear on under there.

"Do you know what happened to the rest of your clothes?"

"I told you they stole them!" Sherlock snapped irritably as he pulled the shirt out of John's grip and held it protectively against his chest.

"Nobody is stealing your clothes you daft git! The nurses just took them off when they put you under so they could fit that cast on you. They must be around here somewhere," John said.

As if by magic, Shirley the Nurse suddenly materialised as if from thin air beside John's elbow holding a pile of Sherlock's clothes.

"I'll just take the cannula out and then you can be on your way Mr Holmes," she said brightly as Sherlock glared at her from under lowered brows.

Removing the drip from Sherlock's hand proved to be a tedious affair as the detective squirmed and fidgeted away whenever Shirley the Nurse came within range of his hand.

"Sherlock you're just going to make it hurt even more if you don't stop fidgeting about like that," John said as Sherlock pulled his hand away again.

"Listen to your Doctor Mr Holmes," Shirley the Nurse said with a smile as Sherlock gave her a withering look.

John placed his hand on Sherlock's lower back and started rubbing soothing circles until he felt the detective drop his head onto John's shoulder and start to relax. Shirley the Nurse picked up Sherlock's hand again and managed to quickly slide the needle out without causing Sherlock any further pain.

"There we go Mr Holmes, all done. I'll leave you to get dressed. Could I just get you to sign these release forms Mr Watson?"

"Yeah sure, will you be all right on your own for a second Sherlock?" John asked as he got up from the bed.

Sherlock, who was far more interested in inspecting the bruise the cannula had left on his hand, grunted by way of response.

John sighed, one of these days he was going to try had force some manners into Sherlock. Glancing up he saw that Shirley the Nurse was grinning at him as she held out Sherlock's release forms. Feeling his face go slightly pink John took the forms and quickly signed them.

"Right, thanks so much for your help," John said as he handed back the form and then added in an undertone, "Sorry about him, he's not normally like that. Actually that's a lie; he's always like that but thank you for looking after him."

"Oh don't worry about it; I've had to deal with far worse than that in here. He was just frightened and in pain. Just make sure you keep an eye on him," She said as she patted him on the arm and made her way back down the ward.

"Right. Clothes on now Sherlock and then we're off," John said as he turned back to find that Sherlock had already wobbled to his feet and was picking through his pile of clothes.

"Whoa, careful!" John said as he managed to catch Sherlock around the waist before his legs gave out.

Sherlock flopped back onto the bed and gave out a heavy sigh. The anaesthetic still hadn't worn off properly and John could tell that Sherlock was beginning to crash from exhaustion. He needed to get the detective dressed and home soon to his own bed where he could rest properly.

"Please tell me you're wearing pants under that gown," John said, secretly praying that the nurses hadn't managed to steal his flatmates underwear as well. After coming to the conclusion earlier this evening that he was more than a little bit infatuated with his flatmate, John was starting to feel uncomfortable. Trying to be clinical and professional with Sherlock was never going to be as successful as he hoped because it was, well, Sherlock.

Before John could stop him Sherlock grabbed the hem of his gown and pulled it up to his navel, revealing that he did in fact have underwear on. John felt his face flush as he took in Sherlock's pale skin, lovely long legs and tight form fitting underwear. He would put money on it that those legs would feel good wrapped ar- No! John shook himself mentally, he couldn't think about his friend in that way, not when he was in such a vulnerable position.

"Let's just pull that down shall we?" John said as he pulled Sherlock's hospital gown back down over his knees.

Sherlock attempted to pull himself up into a sitting position but he seemed to run out energy half way through and keeled over backwards again. John sighed heavily. John wasn't quite sure how he did it but somehow he managed to manover Sherlock back into his ripped shirt and suit trousers. What was more impressive was that the detective had remained prone on the bed the entire time and John had to prod him several times just to make sure he was still in the land of the living. After pulling on Sherlock's shoes and socks he heaved the detective up into a standing position.

"Are you sure you don't want to get a wheelchair?" John said worriedly as Sherlock started to sag against him as they made their way towards the lifts.

"No. Home, now," Sherlock said as he attempted to straighten up as they entered the lift.

John rolled his eyes and sighed as he pressed the button for the ground floor. Sometimes there was just no helping Sherlock, even when he needed it the most. They stood, well John stood as Sherlock seemed quite content to let John hold him up, in silence as they waited for the lift to descend to the bottom floor. Just as they neared the ground floor, John became dimly aware that as well as listing slightly to the side, Sherlock's legs appeared to be giving out from underneath him and he was starting to slide down onto the floor. In fact the only thing that seemed to be holding the detective up where John's arms that where wrapped firmly around his waist.

"Sherlock!" John said exasperatedly as he tried retaining his grip on the dead weight in his arms.

Sherlock's only response was a semi-conscious grunt as his head lolled against John's chest. Typically just as the lift doors opened John was bent double, in what looked like a very compromising position, with his arms around Sherlock's waist and trying to prevent him from sliding fully onto the floor.

A bemused looking nurse stared back at him.

"Errrr," was all John could think of to say as Sherlock just slumped in his arms like a dying albatross.

"Do you want a wheelchair mate?"

"Yes please," John grunted as he tried to heave Sherlock up onto his feet.

"Don't…. need…. Chair," Sherlock mumbled as he tried to stagger to his feet.

"Yes you bloody well do!" John said as he tried to push his sweaty hair out of his eyes whilst still retaining a firm grip on his flatmate.

John managed to half drag, half shove Sherlock into the chair as the nurse positioned it behind the detective. Sherlock grumbled and flailed about as John tried to hold him steady. Glancing up he saw the pregnant lady and her husband he had seen on his way in were staring at him in horror, as if their worst fears had been realised. Clearly it was going to be one of those days.

"Sherlock just get in and shut up will you?" John said through clenched teeth as Sherlock kicked him hard in the shin.

"I've got one with straps if you think he's going to do a bunk," the nurse said helpfully.

"I think we'll be ok, won't we Sherlock?" John said pointedly as Sherlock energy tank seemed to deplete and he finally resigned himself to being confined to a wheelchair.

After checking that Sherlock hadn't done any more damage too himself and sorting out the sling that had become tangled in the scuffle, John kicked off the break and began to wheel Sherlock away from the lifts.

"Off we go then," he said brightly as the nurse waved him off.

Sherlock was too out of it to put up much more of a resistance so John managed to wheel him towards to the pharmacy to collect his painkiller prescription without any further embarrassing incidents. It was quite nice being in control of the speed and direction in which he was travelling at for once. Resisting the urge to race Sherlock up and down the corridors in the wheelchair like he had done when he was a medical student, John pulled the chair around and parked up outside the pharmacy.

"Right I'll just get your painkillers and then we'll get a taxi home ok?"

"Mpgh," was all Sherlock had to say on the matter so John handed the prescription over to the chemist and sat in the chair next to Sherlock and waited.

"Are you still not going to tell me how this happened?" John asked quietly.

Sherlock merely attempted to shrug his shoulders lopsidedly and said nothing. He was looking very pale under the florescent lights, the purple shadows under his eyes had become even more pronounced than usual.

"Sherlock if this was just some silly little accident you had I'm not going to laugh at you. Well maybe only a little," John said with a smile but Sherlock's response was cut off by the chemist calling out his prescription.

Thankfully the queue for the taxi's outside the Hospital was relatively short, which was lucky as it was bitterly cold outside and Sherlock's ripped shirt wasn't exactly providing much warmth.

"Will you be all right getting in the cab whilst I take the wheelchair back?" John said as he bent down to talk to Sherlock.

"I am perfectly capable of walking John, I broke my arm not my leg," Sherlock snapped as he pulled himself up out of the wheelchair and stumbled into the taxi.

John sighed heavily as he pushed the wheelchair back inside the Hospital and prayed that Sherlock didn't just decide to leave without him. They spent the ride home in silence, although they did have to stop once so Sherlock could be throw up on the pavement. The combination of pain killers and anaesthetic didn't seem to be agreeing with the detective and he spent the remainder of the journey slumped in Johns lap in a drugged stupor. When they finally arrived at Baker Street Sherlock was too tired to put up much of a resistance to John's fussing and allowed his friend to help him over the threshold.

"Come here, let's get you up to bed," John said as he put Sherlock's good arm over his shoulder and wrapped his arm around the detectives skinny waist.

It took them a while to navigate themselves up the seventeen steps to the flat, Sherlock's legs didn't seem to be attached to his body anymore, but somehow they managed it without any more serious injuries. Sherlock turned and attempted to wobble his way towards his bedroom but John held onto his waist and steered him back towards the living room.

"No not your room, there's stuff all over the bed and that floor is a health hazard. You can bunk up with me tonight," John said as he began to maneuverer Sherlock up the small flight of stairs that led to his own bedroom.

"John, I don't need-,"

But John cut him off.

"Yes you do. Besides I'll be up all night worrying about you if I let you sleep down there," John said as he helped Sherlock up the stairs.

As they entered his bedroom he eased Sherlock down into a sitting position on the edge of the bed and began digging through the pile of laundry that was on the end of the bed.

"I haven't had time to sort this out yet but I think I saw a pair of your pyjama bottoms in here, ahhh yes here we are," John said triumphantly as he untangled a pair of Sherlock's pyjama bottoms from one of his jumpers. Sherlock shivered a bit on the bed and looked around blearily as if he couldn't quite figure out where he was.

"Right, I'm sorry Sherlock but this shirt has had it I'm afraid. You can wear one of my old t-shirts; I should have one that will fit you. The trousers I should be able to help you out of," John said as he propped Sherlock up on the bed.

The other man nodded mutely as he tried to focus his eyes on John's face. Grabbing the small wicker chair that normally had dirty clothes slung over the back of it, John sat down in front of Sherlock. Bending down he untied Sherlock's shoes and gently pulled them off; any form of sudden movement seemed to send Sherlock dangerously off balance.

"Right. I'm going to start getting you undressed now Sherlock, ok?"

John sighed inwardly to himself as Sherlock nodded again. The little fantasy that he had made up in his mind in which he took Sherlock's clothes off certainty did not start with a trip to the hospital and a broken arm. He'd been so worried in the hospital that he hadn't really given much thought to Sherlock's clothes, apart from the broken button on the detective's trousers that he had noticed earlier. However as he went to unbuckle the belt on his flatmates trousers he could see that there was a large tear in one of the pockets and that three of the belt loops were also broken. Something really wasn't right John thought as he unfastened Sherlock's belt and pulled down his fly.

"Come on; lift your hips up Sherlock. I need to get your trousers off," John said softly.

Sherlock managed to lift himself up so John could get his trousers off but in doing so managed to unbalance himself and pitched forward off the edge of the bed. John managed to get a grip on his shoulders just before he hit the floor.

"Whoa, up you get," John said as he carefully sat the detective back up on the bed.

"John," Sherlock mumbled blearily.

"Yes,"

"John,"

"Yes Sherlock,"

"My arm," Sherlock said dazedly as he looked down at the sling that held up his injured arm as if he had only just realised it was there.

"It's broken Sherlock. Remember? You broke your arm this evening. We've just come back from the hospital," John said kindly as he stroked Sherlock's uninjured arm.

"Oh," Sherlock mumbled as he leaned forward and rested his head on John's chest. John froze for a moment; he was treading a very thin line in what was appropriate behaviour for a doctor and a patient.

"Hurts," Sherlock mumbled into his chest.

John sighed and pushed aside the small voice inside his head that was telling him to just get Sherlock's pyjamas on and put him to bed. He lifted his hand up and began stroking the detective's head, his fingers easing between the thick curls. Sherlock sighed happily like a big cat and nuzzled his head further into John's hand. John let him stay like that for a few more minutes before he concluded that having a semi naked Sherlock pressed up against him probably wasn't a good idea.

"Come on, let's get you dressed and into bed," John said as he eased Sherlock away from him.

He managed to manover Sherlock into his pyjama bottoms without much difficulty. More problematic was how to get him into the t-shirt.

"Right lift your arm up, no the other one, and I'll see if I can make the sleeve a bit bigger. Sherlock, are you alright?" John asked when Sherlock winced painfully as tried to lift up his uninjured arm.

"It's fine," Sherlock mumbled.

"No it isn't. Let me have a look," John said as he pulled open Sherlock's ruined shirt.

Large yellow bruises had started to spread their way down Sherlock's pale chest. The detective was far too lean for a man of his height and the lack of fat on him just seemed to make the bruising look even worse. John frowned slightly as he ran his fingers along Sherlock's ribcage as gently as he could to make sure the hospital hadn't missed any broken ribs.

"I don't think you've broken anything, just severely bruised yourself," John said as he picked up Sherlock's uninjured arm. Bruises were starting to show on his wrists and forearm here too.

A feeling of unease was beginning to spread through John. It was looking more and more likely that Sherlock had run into a member of the criminal underworld on his way home from his date. Leaning back he grabbed one of his old hooded jumpers that zipped up through the middle.

"There, much easier than the t-shirt," John said as eased Sherlock's arms into the sleeves and zipped the hoody up, "Now are you going to tell me what happened?"

Sherlock just fiddled with the zip on his new clothes and attempted another awkward shrug.

"Did you fall?"

"No,"

"You weren't attacked by some criminal were you? Because if you were we need to inform Lestrade."

"No"

"Oh come on Sherlock I'm not going to laugh at you if you just tripped over or something. You're not impervious to having accidents you know!" John chuckled although even as he said it, he knew that Sherlock's injuries really weren't consistent with someone who had fallen over.

John didn't think that Sherlock was going to offer up any more information tonight so he quickly pulled his jeans and jumper off and got changed into his own pyjamas. Then he heard Sherlock start to speak softly.

"It was Hugo… he…. I mean… "

John stopped midway pulling his socks off and turned to stare at Sherlock. Surely he couldn't have heard that right? He hadn't even given a second thought to how Sherlock's date had gone or why Hugo wasn't at the hospital with Sherlock. John had just presumed that Sherlock had either had an accident that he was too embarrassed to tell him about or he had an altercation with a criminal. The detective was looking at John with such a lost expression on his face that it made John's heart physically ache. The ripped clothes, the bruises, it was all so obvious. How could he have been so stupid? Prattling on about Sherlock being clumsy and falling over when all this time…. Moving back around the bed he knelt in front of Sherlock and gently took hold of his hand.

"Sherlock look at me. I need you to look at me and I need you to listen to me very carefully ok? No, look at me Sherlock," John said as Sherlock avoided his gaze, "I need you to tell me what happened with Hugo tonight ok?"

"He asked me if I wanted to go back to his flat too see his collection of ornamental animal skeletons," Sherlock said with an utterly bewildered expression that just made John's heart sink.

Poor Sherlock, he really didn't have a clue.

"He just…tried to," Sherlock said as he stumbled to find the right words for something that seemed so alien to him, "I reiterated that I was uninterested in anything of that nature with him and that's when he got a bit…aggressive," Sherlock said as John stroked his hand gently.

"It's ok, I'm right here. Just take your time," John said as John rubbed his thumb gently over Sherlock's wrist.

"He said I should have expected it, looking the way I do. That I wanted it. But I don't understand, I don't understand any of it," Sherlock murmured as his eyes drew together in a frown, "Then his hands just seemed to be everywhere. I didn't like it, I told him to stop but he wouldn't. That's when he put his tongue was in my mouth."

John was fighting a very strong impulse to just grab hold of Sherlock and check every inch of him for any kind of injury. Either that or bundle him into the bath and scrub away any trace that Hugo had left behind. The other half of him was ready to charge out of the door and beat Hugo into a bloody pulp.

"Sherlock," John said gently, "Did Hugo rape you?"

Slowly, after what seemed like a decade to John, Sherlock shook his head.

"You're sure, because if he did Sherlock I need to know. If he's done anything like that to you I need to get you back to the hospital ok?"

"I don't need to go back to the hospital John," Sherlock said.

"It's ok to tell me if he did Sherlock," John said gently.

"He touched me… but he didn't do what you're thinking,"

"Did he touch you somewhere intimate?"

Sherlock looked away, a pink tinge beginning to spread across his face.

"Listen to me Sherlock, this wasn't your fault. Don't let him-" but Sherlock cut across him.

"Of course I know it wasn't my fault! Honestly John, you seem to be forgetting that I am quite capable of looking after myself," Sherlock snapped grumpily.

"I know Sherlock, I know. I just want to make sure you are ok. How did you break your arm?" John said feeling more than a little relived that Sherlock hadn't had one of the worst atrocities of human kind afflicted upon him.

"I lifted it in an attempt to block his attack; unfortunately I misjudged the force of his grip. I gave him a black eye and a bloody nose by way of compensation though," Sherlock said.

"Well I'm glad you did," John said as he smiled for what felt like the first time in ages.

They sat in silence for a while, John still rubbing soothing circles on Sherlock's back and his fingers still tightly entwined with the detectives.

"John," Sherlock said quietly.

"Mmm"

"Hugo did something else to me,"

"What?" John said sharply.

"He grabbed my hand and he made me… made me touch him…" Sherlock said.

"Do you mean he made you touch his genitals?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Was he ummm aroused?"

Sherlock nodded again, the pink flush returning to his skin, and John fought the urge to smash his wicker chair to pieces. Silence drifted down upon them again before Sherlock spoke again.

"Do you like being touched there John?"

John thought for a brief moment, clearly there was no sense in lying to Sherlock.

"Yes Sherlock I do, but at the right time and with the right person," John answered, he wasn't quite sure were Sherlock was going with all of this.

"Do you like being touched there by other men?"

Again, no point in lying.

"I do and I have been."

"Why? I don't understand," Sherlock said frustratedly.

"Sherlock I think this is a conversation for another time. You've been through a terrible ordeal tonight and you really need to rest," John said firmly as he moved to try and get Sherlock into bed.

"Don't look at me like that," Sherlock snapped suddenly.

"Like what?" John said bewilderedly.

"Like you pity me. I know what you're thinking. Any normal person who had been out on a date before would have realised what he was after before it was too late," Sherlock said crossly.

"Sherlock that's not what I'm thinking at all. And you're not stupid either. Just because you've never had any dating experience before doesn't mean you deserved this. I said it before and I'll say it again; this wasn't your fault! Do you understand me Sherlock Holmes?" John said as he pulled Sherlock around to face him properly.

"Yes," Sherlock whispered and he suddenly looked so tired and fragile that in one gentle movement John had him tucked up under the duvet.

"You had better take some of these before you go to sleep," John said as he held out two of the pain killers Sherlock had been prescribed along with a glass of water.

Sherlock fumbled slightly being that it was his dominant hand that was broken as he tried to hold onto both the glass and the tablets. John let him attempt to take the pills one handed before he intervened.

"Come on, give me back the water. I don't think you want to be sleeping in wet sheets," John said as he took back the glass of water as it was in danger of spilling all over the bed.

Sherlock huffed loudly but he allowed John to hold out the glass for him as he took a large gulp and swallowed the medication. John patted the detective's knee as he tried to stifle a yawn.

"Come on, budge up," John said as he pulled the covers back so he could climb in beside Sherlock.

"John, you don't have to let me stay, I can sleep in my own room," Sherlock mumbled as he tried to fight off another yawn.

"And have you fall out of bed and break the other arm? I don't think so," John said ruefully as he pulled the covers back over both of them.

"What if I fall out of this bed?" Sherlock said drowsily.

John thought for a moment before he grabbed one of his extra pillows that had fallen onto the floor.

"Roll onto your side, mind your arm though," he said as he coaxed Sherlock to lay down on his side whilst he placed the pillow to the side of the detectives head and gently place his broken arm down on it. Once Sherlock was settled he moved closer and slid his arm around the detective's waist.

"There, now there's no way for you to do any further damage to yourself," John said as he tucked the blankets in more firmly around the two of them.

"John?" Sherlock murmured as he wriggled closer into John.

Sensing the man next to him was still distressed and needed some comfort; John moved his hand up to Sherlock's uninjured one and entwined their fingers.

"Is this ok?" He whispered.

Sherlock nodded and let out a contented sigh.

"Good because I'm not going anywhere, I'll be right here. Just go to sleep."

John waited until he was certain that Sherlock had succumbed to sleep before he leaned over and kissed Sherlock softly on the forehead. He was going to have some very strong and unrepeatable words with Lestrade tomorrow about the type of friends he kept. Pulling Sherlock closer to him suddenly felt like he wanted to cry. What if tonight had turned out differently and Hugo had raped Sherlock? No, he couldn't think like that. Sherlock was safe in his arms and would remain so if John had anything to do with it. A goods night sleep was what he needed as Sherlock was going to need him now more than ever. He was just about to drift off when he heard a buzzing noise coming from under his pillow. Moving slowly so he wouldn't wake up Sherlock, he felt around underneath his pillow and pulled out his phone. He must have left it there after he ran off to the hospital. Flipping it open he found a text message waiting for him that made his blood run cold;

**I have recently been informed of tonight's events concerning my little brother. Await my arrival at 9 o'clock tomorrow morning. Please be punctual. MH**

Bloody hell, Mycroft was going to kill him! Death by umbrella.

* * *

><p>Thank you all for the lovely comments on the previous chapter! I hope to have the next chapter up before I move this week but if I don't it might be a while as I won't have the internet for a bit. I hope you can all stick with the story. xxx<p> 


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